WRAITH CASE STUDY AUGUSTA PINE #2
I held up both hands. “We’re supposed to stay calm,” I said in my most level voice. “Help is on the way. But in the meantime, they told me what to do. Does anyone have a tote bag?”
There was utter silence for a moment.
“A tote bag?” said the boy, frowning. He had one of those stickers on his shirt that said “Unaccompanied Minor.” He was probably around ten or eleven.
“A bag capable of toting,” I said. “A shopping bag? Extremely large purse? Anything?”
Finally, the dad reached down and came up with a pink backpack. A cartoon unicorn glittered across the front. “Would this work?”
“Perfect,” I said. “I am going to bring this bag around to everyone. I want you to power down your cell phones, visors, tablets, ringware, and computers. Then put them into this fine backpack. And as you do so, please say your name, your destination, and your favorite ice cream flavor.”
When people panic, they get dangerous. It’s best to keep them off-balance; confused is better than frightened. If I remained cheerful and authoritative, most people would go along with what I asked.
The dad pulled out a large phone and a laptop and tipped both into the backpack.
“My name is Shin,” he said. “My twins are Sara and Haruka. We’re going on a camping trip with family in Washington.
And—um. I don’t know. Chocolate?” One of the toddlers perked up at the word “chocolate.” The other was too busy mashing a stuffed bear’s face against the window.
As he moved, his sleeve rolled up enough for me to see his electron-ink tattoo. My visor scanned it, confirming his name. Not that I thought he was the hacker—most criminals didn’t believe in “take your toddlers to work” day.
“Good answer,” I said, taking the backpack. I turned across the aisle to the boy. He had sandy brown hair, a light tan across his forearms, and a cynical scrunch to his eyebrows. “Electronic devices, name, destination, and ice cream flavor, kid.”
The boy looked doubtful. “I’m Peter. My parents are divorced and I’m going to stay with my dad near Lake Oswego.
And I like mint chip.” He reached up and unclipped an earpiece phone.
He dropped it into the backpack. When I eyed his tablet, he clutched it a little closer to his chest. It was the kind of tablet parents bought for kids—limited internet access and cheaper than a visor.
“Keep it, kid,” I said. He might need a distraction in the next few minutes, and I wasn’t heartless.
The turquoise-hair girl was more reluctant. “What if this is some kind of trick?” she said. “You could be the hijacker and stealing our phones. How do we know you called anyone?”
I let out a sigh. Then I flicked my fingers, activating my ringware. I booted up the ID scanner on my visor and let my eyes flicker over her hand. The bars of silver ink came to life—and at once, all her information poured across my vision.
“Katharine Walsh,” I said. “Nineteen years old, currently employed as a PA for a lawyer working in San Francisco. You’re on this bus probably to visit your Great Aunt Helena, who I see was just hospitalized in Portland.
Sorry about that. You also have a sealed record.
Looks like some kind of juvie thing when you were fifteen.
It would take me about two minutes to break that seal, so if you want to continue this conversation, please.
” I held out my hand in invitation. “Let’s. ”
Her face paled a little. Civilian visors couldn’t read ID tattoos. It was considered a violation of privacy. My pulling her personal info was more impressive than my doughnut loyalty card. “Fine,” she said, yanking off her own ringware and dropping it in the bag.
“Much appreciated,” I said brightly, and moved on to the next person.
It took about ten minutes, and at the end of it I had a backpack bulging with cell phones, laptops, rings, and tablets.
Among the passengers were a middle-aged woman (Claire, headed for Tacoma, was lactose intolerant) and a couple in their late twenties (Craig and Oliver, going to visit the in-laws in Albany, couldn’t agree on strawberry or vanilla).
Most people were reluctant to give up their tech, but one glance out the window at the dead trees and broken homes seemed enough to convince them.
Going around to each of them allowed me to take their measure. But I still didn’t know who was the hacker. None of them seemed the type.
I hauled the pink backpack toward the front of the bus. All the devices had been turned off, so whoever had hijacked the bus couldn’t input new orders. If they wanted to retaliate, to cut their losses by driving us into a tree, they were out of luck.
The old lady with the crochet was waiting for me.
“Name, phone, destination, ice cream flavor,” I said, holding out my hand.
The old lady had the kind of perfect eyebrows that could only be achieved with a mirror and a steady hand.
Her hair was silver and mouth quirked up at one corner.
“Elle,” she said. “Headed for Vancouver. I prefer frozen yogurt to ice cream. And here’s my phone, but it won’t help you.
” She held out a hand and I saw the old-fashioned phone.
It could make calls, but that was it. It was definitely not designed to hack into a bus navigation system.
I let out a startled laugh. “How old is that thing?”
Elle shrugged with one shoulder. Her other hand was still curled around her crochet project. It looked like a tiny sweater—maybe for a baby or a stuffed animal. “Older than you, probably. Phone company’s been trying to get me to upgrade for years, but I like this one.”
She reminded me a little of my nonna—forthright, sharp, and calm even in the midst of a dangerous situation. I found myself softening toward her.
I glanced over my shoulder at the rest of the bus to make sure no one was near enough to hear me. I leaned in closer. “Who do you think it is?”
Elle laughed. “Why ask me?”
“Because you’re the only person on this bus who hasn’t been buried in a book, tablet, or phone,” I said. “I’ve been watching people, but I’m just one pair of eyes. And normally I’d have backup, but he’s currently recharging. You see anything suspicious?”
Elle’s gaze swept out across the bus. I could see her considering. “That young man,” she finally said. “With the sunglasses.”
“Archer,” I said promptly, “headed to Portland for a programming conference, carrying one phone and a laptop, likes rocky road.” The bus bounced as we hit a pothole. “Which seems rather fitting.”
Elle exhaled through her nose. “He’s got another phone on him.”
I blinked. I hadn’t caught that. “How do you know?”
“See how he’s looking down,” said Elle with a nod at Archer. “I was a teacher for enough years to know when someone’s texting under his desk.”
I grinned at her. “Score one for Team Crochet.”
I stood and began making my way down the aisle.
Archer had dark hair with an undercut and the kind of lanky build that reminded me of a fashion mannequin.
He lounged in his bus seat, one arm thrown elaborately over the back.
His mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, but his head was angled down.
He was headed for a programming conference.
He’d kept a phone hidden. And while this was all circumstantial, something else struck me. He looked … unafraid.
What kind of person wasn’t afraid during a hijacking?
During the first few years of automated cars and buses, hijackings weren’t uncommon.
Criminals realized they could take people hostage and demand ransoms with a few taps on a keyboard.
It was only after the vice president was taken and identity theft became an automatic federal felony that the hijackings became less common.
These days, most drivers pay for layers of firewalls and virtual security for their private cars.
Those who can’t afford it … They take their chances.
Public transit companies either hire their own cybersecurity experts or contract with a larger company.
It’s cheaper than being at the heart of a wrongful death suit if a hacker manages to drive a bus off a cliff.
I plopped down in the seat beside Archer. He jerked back a few inches and my gaze roamed over him. One hand was shoved inside his jacket pocket. He could have been holding a phone.
Or a gun, a quiet part of me whispered. Everyone getting on the bus had gone through security, but a man capable of hijacking a bus was surely able to smuggle a weapon on his person.
Archer regarded me coolly. A teenager posed little threat to him. I couldn’t force him to give up that phone, couldn’t stop him physically if he was the hacker. Which meant I’d have to handle this carefully.
“Hi,” I said brightly. I couldn’t meet his eyes through those mirrored sunglasses, so I found a freckle beside his nose and focused on that.
“Yes?” he said.
I didn’t retreat. One did not show fear when facing a predator. My voice was pleasant but very quiet. “Give me the phone.”
His shoulders twitched in surprise. “What?” Shadows flickered across his face; the sun was falling behind the dead trees as the afternoon wore on.
“The phone,” I said, my smile fixed in place. “The one you have in your pocket. Give it to me and I won’t raise my voice.”
His brows drew together over his sunglasses. “And why wouldn’t I want that?”
“Because,” I said lightly, “there are other people on this bus. And if I raise my voice and call you the hijacker, people are going to panic. Some might even try and hurt you. Give me the phone, let me disable the hijacking, and I won’t say a word.
The feds will arrest you, but it’s better than being buried under a mob. ”
The bus rumbled, the windows creaking as we took a sharp turn. Was it my imagination or was the bus going just a little too fast? I couldn’t tell. Adrenaline was a hot flush against my skin and sweat prickled against my back and neck.
Archer made a low sound that might have been a scoff or a laugh. “You’re blaming me.”